"Sacrilege!" came a strained cry from the leader of the stunned church folk. "Stop them!" DuBose screamed.
At that point, time seemed to hit one of those slow motion moments you think only happens in the movies. As if on cue, and just before the walls of the crystal feedlot reached the breaking point, the Almighty punched his thunder and lightning button.
Few things on Earth can match a west Texas thunderstorm for dramatic effect. The pyrotechnics came first: a daylight-bright blast that terrified the cows trapped within the gigantic prism. Seconds later came the prolonged report of God's howitzers which pushed the poor ruminants completely over the edge, through the transparent walls, and into the street.
The cowpoke in the doorway took his leave when the light show began. He knew when the real Master of Mayhem had stepped in. Most of the cattle made it out before the sanctuary slowly dissolved into sparkly rubble.
The crowd, meanwhile, in response to the urging of the portly pastor, had once again begun its advance. That ended the instant the herd leaders aimed their collective hysteria at downtown Greeley. Another crack of thunder got the attention of a couple hundred long horned laggards and launched them toward a rendezvous with their four-legged leaders.
Faced with a sea of horns and hooves, the mob turned and fled, Pamplona-style, overrunning the Reverend and Mrs. DuBose leaving them upended, dazed, and disillusioned in the middle of the street. The two searched for salvation among the faces of the onlookers all about, and several ardently suggested they get the hell out of the way, but neither seemed capable of movement let alone flight. So, they sat where they landed while the mass of crazed bovines bore down on them.
About that time, the subject of DuBose's carefully crafted rants blew in from a side street and turned his smoking, snarling mechanical stallion toward the stampede. Almost as an afterthought, he turned up the volume on the transistor radio duct taped to a bullhorn strapped to the seat behind him and began waving his arms. The tide of beef crested near the Eureka Savings and Loan, and by the time the stragglers caught up with the rest, the front ranks were milling around in a fruitless search for dinner.
The cowpoke never said a word to DuBose or his wife, though he did retrieve his pink bandanna. After stuffing it safely in a breast pocket, he turned down the volume and guided the herd slowly out of town.
Later that night I caught up with him at the Excelsior where he and my twin "aunts" were sharing a six-pack on the lawn by the light of the moon.
"Not much point in stayin' around here," Jo said as she handed me a frosty, longneck Lone Star. "I'm thinkin' about settin’ up shop in Nevada. You're welcome to come along."
The idea of leaving Greeley had appealed to me for some time, but I told her I'd have to think it over.
"I'm sure not staying," Flo said. "Certain elements in this town have made it unfit for livin'." She gave the cowpoke a squeeze. "What about you?"
He picked at the sad garments Flo had found for him to wear. "I 'spect it's time to get some new clothes."
Things got real quiet then, and it seemed like a good time to ask a question that'd been on my mind for some time. I took a swig of beer and faced the old cowboy square up. "Is that stuff about the King of the Fairies true? I mean, I always thought 'Oberon' had a proud sort of ring to it."
"The name don't make the man, son," he said. "It works the other way around." Then he gave me the pink bandanna and patted my shoulder. "I've gotten used to that name over the years, Junior, but if you want to go by something different, it's okay with me."
~End~
Greeley’s Finest
(Circa 1975)
Tucker Thomas parked his car behind the church in the only spot of shade still open. He exhaled as he sat back in his seat, rolled down the window, and let the midday heat of Greeley, Texas, wash over him. Sweat dampened his neck and arms as he took his first whiff of Bowdon County air in over six years.
He’d spent four of those years in college and two in the army. Uncle Sam had sent him to Vietnam, and he’d been among the last to get out. Fortunately, he got out whole. And now, here he was back in Greeley.
A hint of wood smoke mingled with the scent of slow-roasted pork from Bo's Barbecue Barn beside the church. The restaurant had installed air conditioning when he’d still been in high school, and ever since, the congregation of the Greeley Free-Will Evangelical Mission had observed their Sunday devotionals with a morning round in the church and a mid-day session at Bo's.
Woodrow Thomas, Tucker's grandfather and the funerary guest of honor, used to lead the charge from sanctuary to salad bar. Timing of the weekly exodus was crucial as barbecue connoisseurs populated the Baptist and Methodist churches, too. One of Woodrow's duties as a church deacon was to alert the preacher if the competition broke early and attempted to usurp the Mission's place at the head of the line. The old man took his church work seriously, and it was a rare day when anyone ate ahead of Greeley's Free-Will Evangelical Missionaries.
Little had changed since Tucker put his high school diploma in his pocket and the wretched little town in his rearview mirror. He checked his watch. Woodrow would be leading his final procession, albeit prone, in an hour or so, after which Tucker planned a speedy return to San Antonio. With any luck, he'd never have to make the trip to Greeley again.
Suit coat in hand, he eased out of his car and walked toward the church. Surviving family members would occupy the front pew, leaving him no way to gracefully avoid joining them.
He stepped through the double doors of the sanctuary and paused. The church looked unchanged. Bright sunlight flooded the stained glass window behind the altar and invested the final moments of Jesus with a cheery glow. Woodrow's open casket filled the space in front of the altar as a handful of people Tucker didn't recognize paid their final respects. He resolved to join them.
The floor squeaked under his feet as he walked, and mourners on either side of the aisle cut their eyes at him as if he had wandered in nude. He ignored them and focused on the body in the box ahead of him.
Try as he might, he couldn't avoid the thought that Woodrow looked like shit. Not that he ever looked good to begin with, but right then he looked even worse than usual. Dead, in fact. A bible sat in the crook of one arm and an under-inflated football rested in the other, the faded signature of legendary University of Texas coach Darrell Royal just barely visible.
Tucker fought off a smile, knowing how many of his relatives longed to have that stupid ball. It didn't seem likely that Woodrow would fumble it anytime soon, not with the ultimate end zone just ahead. Tucker looked down at the old man, his hands artfully crossed to hide his mutilated fingers. How many times had he waved those abbreviated digits in the faces of the young customers at his fireworks stand? Tucker let his smile show through. Maybe it did some good. He wondered who had inherited the business as he turned away from the casket and faced Woodrow's survivors.
Uncle Hunter, the oldest of Woodrow’s three children, anchored the pew, gray head lowered, his hands resting palms up in his broad lap. His twin sons, Denny and Donny, sat beside him like chained pit bulls and glowered at Tucker as he walked by. Woodrow had often remarked that the two couldn't muster a decent IQ if they multiplied one of their scores by the other. Their mother died in childbirth, and he'd heard more than once that it was likely a kindness. Tucker sought pew space beyond Hunter and found it among the numerous Baxleys, offspring of Woodrow's amazingly fecund daughter, Nell.
She eyed him suspiciously but said nothing as he took his seat beside her. Eight of her oldest children, and their children, filled the two pews behind him. Tucker's own mother, Nell's sister, had left him for the family to raise when he was three. She never came back. As a child, Tucker resented her for what she'd done, but the years gave him perspective and more than a little sympathy for her departure.
The service began with a hymn played on the church's Vox Continental, a portable organ donated by a failed rock band. At first, Tucker thought he recognized the tu
ne, then decided he was mistaken since the organist put more faith in mood and intensity than actual notes, a fact he pointed out to Nell. She threatened to make him sit with the twins if he didn't keep his smart-ass comments to himself.
"Sorry," Tucker said.
She sniffed. "You married yet?"
He cast a quick, backward glance at her two rows of progeny and shook his head. Even if he had a romantic interest, he wasn't about to admit it to the family brood mare.
"Woodrow always said you were a great disappointment."
Tucker feigned a sorrowful look, or what he hoped passed for one.
As the music came to a merciful close, Preacher Clackum stepped in front of the casket and nodded a farewell to Tucker's grandfather. The sanctuary fell silent as the silver-haired minister murmured words only the deceased could have heard.
Suddenly, the sanctuary doors burst open and a half dozen men in white robes entered the building. Patches and embroidered insignia decorated the robes with all the panache of factory second bowling shirts and proudly proclaimed the wearers as members of the Imperial Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, Texas Region, (Reconstituted). Tucker didn't recognize any of them, though it took him a moment to register that none wore a hood.
He leaned toward Nell. "What's this all about?"
"Half those guys are on the FBI payroll," she whispered. “That’s the only reason they keep the dumb thing goin’.”
The six men marched up the squeaky aisle and distributed themselves around the coffin. One stepped forward, his robe markedly cleaner than the others, and Tucker wondered if that alone catapulted him to leadership.
The man cleared his throat twice before addressing the pastor and the startled congregation. "Brother Thomas was a senior officer and long-time member of our Klavern. We're here as an honor guard to escort him to his final resting place." He surrendered his post to another of the Klansmen who produced what looked like folded bed linens. He placed them gently in the coffin beside the sacred football then straightened and addressed the minister. "Okay Preacher, you just go on with the service and don't pay us any mind."
The minister managed a shaky Lord's Prayer, but with the help of the congregation eventually went on as if nothing unusual had transpired.
Tucker nudged his aunt Nell and whispered, "Was Woodrow one of the informants or one of the clueless?" Klueless?
She glared at him. "Don't speak ill of the dead."
Tucker observed the robed men standing at parade rest on either side of the coffin. "Right."
His mind threatened to wander aimlessly as Preacher Clackum rattled on about what a good and kind and just man Woodrow Thomas was -- a true humanitarian. And then he asked if anyone in attendance wanted to say something in remembrance of the great man.
Tucker came out of his trance acutely aware of Nell's elbow in his ribs.
"What?" he asked.
"You're the big city genius," she said. "Can't you say something about your own granddaddy?"
Tucker felt his blood pool in his loafers, convinced the Klansmen displayed way too much interest in him. He swallowed and looked to see if anyone else appeared ready to volunteer, but the honor guard seemed to have a similar effect on the congregation at large. He slowly rose to his feet.
The preacher smiled and waved him forward, clearly relieved to yield ground zero to someone else.
Tucker took a few wobbly steps, the vigor matching his confidence level. Surely he could think of something to say that wouldn't rile the Imperial Knights.
The preacher took his hand and shook it with far more enthusiasm than the occasion warranted, then slipped away. Tucker turned to face the mourners and smiled.
Nobody smiled back.
"I'm Tucker Thomas," he said. "Woodrow was my grandfather. He and my grandma took me in when I was three. Gran died six years ago." He looked at the people as if he'd just been struck by the coincidence. "Until today, that was the last time I'd been in Greeley."
No one seemed particularly interested, least of all the Klansmen.
"There’s not much I can tell you about Woodrow that you don't already know." He glanced at the honor guard. "It's funny how some things can remain a secret, isn't it?"
He sweated through a few nervous laughs then plowed ahead. "My grandfather and I didn't have a whole lot in common," he said, hoping he'd be able to think of some belief they did share. "But he always stood by me. Even when I decided to become an Aggie instead of a Longhorn."
His declaration of Texas A&M fealty boosted him a notch with a portion of the crowd, but lowered him a notch with the rest.
"And he taught me a good many things. About life. About, uhm, gettin’ by. About recognizing human needs and wants and working to fulfill them."
A quick glance at the honor guard gave him slightly more confidence. They appeared harmless. Of course, the same could be said of a sleeping rattler. He decided not to say anything about Woodrow's primary source of income -- the manufacture of "genuine" civil war artifacts.
"In more ways than I can describe, Woodrow Thomas helped to make me the man I am today. The things he did, and the people he believed in, shaped my life, and I'm here today to thank him one last time."
At long last, a few smiles appeared in the congregation. Tucker nodded in appreciation, then sat down before he was forced to admit his grandfather was a crook and a con artist and represented everything in life he hoped to avoid. Woodrow was the perfect counter role model, and a new realization suddenly dawned on him. Hell, he ought to thank the old bastard.
The thought made him grin. Wasn't that what he'd just done?
~*~
The majority of mourners pooled near the exit to lend moral, if not physical, support to the Klansmen who bore Woodrow’s casket to the graveyard beside the church. Tucker stood near his car hoping to get away before anyone collared him.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
Tucker didn’t recognize the voice and jerked around to face the speaker, a striking blonde in a white sundress that emphasized attributes any cheerleader would envy. Just the sight of such a beauty would normally have been enough to render him speechless, but that she’d been looking for him made his head spin.
“Do I know you?” He finally managed.
“We went to school together,” she said. “For a while, anyway.“
He gave her his best rendition of a dazzling smile. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember you if we ever met.”
She returned his smile, with double the wattage. “Miz’ Mabry? Fifth grade?”
His mind spun like a hamster wheel. How could he not know someone so drop dead gorgeous? Could life be more unfair? “I’m not-- I, uh....”
“I’m Holly Coe.”
Instantly, the hamster wheel locked, and he stared at her in stupefying recognition. Holly Coe? Big, fat, Holly Coe? Impossible! “Holy--“
“Please,” she said, palms raised, “don’t say it. You can’t imagine how I hated that nickname.”
They’d called her “Holy Cow” as much for her great size as for the convenient meanness of it. The tag had nothing to do with religion.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just-- I--“
“Forget it,” she said. “I shouldn’t be so touchy.”
“No, no. You’ve every right to be sensitive about it. Kids can be such assholes. My own cousins taunted me, called me an orphan. Like I could do something about it. But, what happened to you?” Still groping for words, he added, “I mean, you just dropped out of sight. There weren’t that many kids in the whole school. It’s not like we didn’t notice.”
“When my granddaddy got elected to Congress, the whole family moved to DC. Both my parents worked for him, and so they put me in a private school up there.”
“You look fantastic.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling again. “I worked at it.”
“I can imagine.”
“No,” she said, simply. “You can’t.”
“I meant--“ r />
“Is there somewhere we can go, out of the heat? We need to talk.”
We do? Yes! He pulled himself together. “I’m sure we can find someplace. Bo’s will be mobbed as soon as the funeral’s over, but--“
“How rude of me,” she said. “The ceremony is about to start. You probably need to go. And, by the way, I was sorry to hear about your grandfather.”
“Thanks,” he said. “And honestly, I hadn’t planned to attend the graveside service. Woodrow and I-- We weren’t that close.”
“I thought you lived with him.”
“I did. A long time ago.” He gave her an appraising look. “You seem to know a lot about me. Do you keep such close tabs on all your granddad’s constituents?”
Laughing, she waved him into her car. He didn’t mind. Who could complain about being driven around town by a beautiful woman in a sports car? Woodrow Thomas may have done many things, but raising an idiot wasn’t one of them.
~*~
They settled into a booth in the Cattlemen’s Castle, an enterprise with roots in the previous century. A faded sign from the original building, the Spread Eagle, hung over a traditional mirror behind the bar.
“This place used to be a brothel, y’know,” Holly said.
Tucker nodded. “So I heard -- a real hot topic when you’re in high school. But then came all the church folk. Greeley’s just not the same ol’ den of sin it used to be.”
“Like back in the pioneer days,” Holly said.
“Woodrow told me some tales. Greeley’s seen some wild times, and not all of it in the 1800’s.”
Holly drummed her fingers on the table. “There’s still some of that goin’ on. But if folks will just relax a bit, and let sleeping dogs lie, much of it will just pass quietly into the past, and Greeley can move forward.”
Tucker eyed her closely. “Are you referring to something specific, or are we still talking in generalities?”
The question caused a bump in her comfort level. “Ah, well. That’s kinda why I’m here, actually.”
“I wondered about that. What’d Woodrow do this time?”